


Diss The Season

by J_Baillier



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Autism Spectrum, Christmas, Family Issues, Friendship, Gen, Gift Giving, Loneliness, Post-Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, holiday spirit, or lack thereof, our boys visit Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 17:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13012287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: Nobody likes being alone at Christmas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I often say stupid things such as "I don't write [insert thing]." For years, that has included Christmas stories. That all changed when 7PercentSolution took me to Winchester for some cosy Xmas shopping. I then typed this up on my phone in the middle of the night.
> 
> Time: we're going to go back to the cosy, nostalgic time of season one. This happens after The Blind Banker but before The Great Game. Whatever season separated those, let's pretend Christmas happened in the middle of it.
> 
> Happy holidays, fellow Sherlockians!

 

  
"We’ve got two hours to kill before my train leaves. Why not make use of it?" John has an inkling that he may well fail at changing Sherlock's mind. On the other hand: sometimes, just _sometimes_ , persistence pays off.

"What you call Christmas shopping is an aimless meander in retail hell that serves only to fatten the pockets of corporate stockholders under the pretence of a holiday the religious background of which the majority of Brits do not even actively embrace."

"So you actually hate Christmas, is that it? I know some people do. Bad memories?"

"No. Not as such. And hate is too  strong a word," Sherlock points out, and sips the dregs of his espresso.

To John he sounds evasive. Maybe it’s just Sherlock being Sherlock: indecipherable, dismissive of social conventions, moody. He's also an atheist – ' _it's the only sensible option for the scientifically-minded, John_ '. 

John likes to say he's on the fence about the existence of God. He has once prayed from the bottom of his heart, begging for whatever force calls the shots in this universe to save his life. He's still here, so he better not push his luck. Agnostic is the furthest he will go.

As for Christmas memories, his own are hardly the stuff of idyllic storybooks. Christmases did get better after his alcoholic father had died since there was a bit of peace and quiet and safety to be enjoyed, but his passing also plunged the family into financial dire straits.

Still – it's _Christmas_. Surely not even Sherlock can be such a cynic that he enjoys none of it.

They are in Winchester because of a case. It had taken Sherlock three days to find out what happened to a Picasso owned by the mother of one John de Lucy. What had originally looked like a well-orchestrated heist had turned out to be a convoluted tale of jilted lovers, illegitimate children and bad luck, and John had enjoyed all of it tremendously – especially since it meant getting to shake off the dust of London and enjoy the Hampshire scenery. Winchester had once been the capital instead of London, and its cathedral the main seat of the church.

"You must buy at least somebody presents, don’t you?" John tries.

Sherlock performs one of his most refined put-upon sighs. "I usually delegate buying presents for our parents to Mycroft, who then subcontracts it to a minion. They earn points in his eyes, and neither of us has to brave the crowds of idiots chasing the latest pointless and trendy fashionable hit gadgets at John Lewis, so everybody wins."

"What about you and Mycroft?"

Sherlock shoves a floppy, errant curl behind his ear. The wet sleet that has been pelting down has turned his luscious cloud of curls into something resembling a wet poodle. "I keep suggesting he could gift me with an extended absence but he keeps getting me _things_. The issue of his gift can be easily resolved with an appropriately expensive bottle of wine or an ancient scotch."

"Winchester’s bound to be less crowded and exhausting than any shopping district or mall in London. It says in the brochure that they even have a famous Christmas market going on next to the cathedral."

Sherlock looks like he has decided not to understand what the term 'Christmas market' even means. Suggesting that Sherlock have a look at the cathedral while John shops is also not an option since they had already visited the building on an evening when the case stagnated and Sherlock got a bit stir-crazy.

John wonders if the usual post-case exhaustion phase is about to start, since Sherlock looks a bit... deflated. As the case had drawn towards its conclusion, the excitement and triumph had drained out of him like rain washing colours out of a landscape. The post-case sulky periods never used to come around this quickly, did  they? Usually at least a few days of spectacularly good mood precede the frustration and boredom. Come to think of it, this time Sherlock had been growing increasingly dispirited even when the case was still on. John had looked forward to the case drawing to a close, having a bit of time for wandering around, maybe having lunch before they’d go their separate ways for Christmas. Now, trying to get Sherlock to engage is like trying to a dig a hole in a brick wall with a spoon.

"Right. Well, I have to find something for Harry," John says, now resigned to his fate of perusing the the shops on Southgate Street alone.

"A self-help book on sobriety?" Sherlock suggests and he probably isn’t even joking. He does joke, often inadvertently, but the gloom that has taken over has removed all traces of mischief from his tone. 

John decides that it's a very good thing that it’s the 22nd of Christmas. Not even Sherlock's strops can be totally resistant to family and good food and presents and a nice log fire in the hearth. Judging by what John has heard from the two Holmes brothers about their parents’ home in Surrey, their Christmases are probably something akin to what one sees in interior design magazines. John himself won’t be relaxing in front of a log fire in an idyllic country cottage. He’ll be in Harry’s smallish flat in Bournemouth, eating store-bought mince pies and trying to keep the distance between her and a bottle of Tanqueray as wide as possible. Still, she's family. That’s what Christmas is for – being with important people. It’ll be good for Sherlock to go see his own – perhaps their mother will succeed in getting some fat in the bones of her skinny son. Lord knows John’s nagging about even mad geniuses needing to eat is producing no results at all. 

Even right now, Sherlock is just picking apart and scrutinizing his sandwich instead of consuming it.

"I could always get her a nice pair of gloves. Who doesn’t need gloves?" John muses.

Sherlock gives him a disinterested hum, opens a sachet of brown sugar and peers into it.

"If you don’t fancy poking around the market, I saw a respectable-looking tea shop down the road. We’re running out of loose-leaf."

Sherlock flicks a dismissive wrist. "Mrs Hudson will—"

"Mrs Hudson will, even though she shouldn’t, because she's not our housekeeper. Are you just going to sit here, then, or go back to the hotel?" John glances around the branch of Patisserie Valerie they’re seated at. Sherlock tends to be particular about picking restaurants and cafes, and this chain seems to have passed the muster based on coffee bean quality and cake selection.

"Get her a book. People rarely read what they’re given but won’t be bothered by more books cluttering the shelves. I’m sure your sister will be suitably appreciative of some pedestrian crime novel."

"You should write your own, show them how it’s done." John slips back into his coat, glancing across the cafe and through the window. It’s snowing instead of sleeting, now. A rare occurrence in these parts.

"It’s enough that one of us chronicles this enterprise. I see no point in wasting precious time making crimes up," Sherlock says. He sometimes peers over John's shoulder when he's reading those sorts of things and spoils everything by pointing out who the killer is.

John refrains from calling him a bundle of Christmas joy.

Before they part at the door of the cafe, Sherlock tiredly points out that he had also seen a chocolate shop next to something he calls The Pentice, and adds that chocolate should be a suitable neutral gift to give to anyone.

Of course, the git has hoovered the Winchester street map into his head already. He wonders if that Mind Palace has its own dedicated map room.

John watches his silhouette disappear into the thickening snowfall before heading up the street.

There had been a bookshop nearby – maybe Sherlock’s suggestion should be heeded. Who doesn’t like books?

After he's done, he'll need to pick up his bag from the hotel and get to the train station. He can’t afford to miss his connection; an electrical fault at Clapham Junction has wreaked havoc with train schedules.

He hasn’t asked when Sherlock is catching a train back to London – judging by the size of his bag, he obviously hadn’t packed for Surrey so he must be heading there via Baker Street.

Making his way down an atmospheric, Christmas light-adorned side street, John decides leaving his gift-buying to the last minute had been an accidentally good idea. The amount of folks out and about in the small town don’t even begin to rival what goes on in London right before the holidays, and people seem less irritable. All the shops are also conveniently close to one another.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  


Sherlock lies on his hotel bed, staring at the cobwebs on the ceiling.

John tends to do their hotel and guesthouse bookings, always picking these sorts of inexpensive, draughty places. Sherlock has deduced that John would not appreciate him offering to cover the cost of a more expensive accommodation option for the both of them, even though that would not even begin to strain his finances. It seems important to John not to accept charity from others. Sherlock doesn’t entirely understand all this, but colleagues should respect one another's quirks, should they not?

He regrets not going with John. His inane shopping natter would have been preferable to this, if only he'd stopped talking about Christmas. He is catching a train soon to alleviate his sister’s loneliness and his own guilt over things pertaining to their family history that really aren’t his fault. John feels guilty when others are not happy, even when it's not his fault. Curious.

Sherlock should be glad, really, that he won’t have to talk to a single soul this Christmas – won't have to put up with all the pungent flowers and inane carols and so much food that it makes Mycroft happy and Sherlock suffer indigestion; the horrid crackers and insipid films Father insists they watch, obnoxious relatives popping by to pinch his cheek and ask him why he hasn't settled down with a nice girl yet; candle smoke and sleeping in his old bed with the broken spring that pokes into his lower back and all the other irritating things others insist he must put up with just because of a bank holiday.

Still, as intense as Sherlock's Christmas griping is on principle, he misses it. He misses all of it, most of all the feeling of _belonging_ somewhere.

He is capable of relishing the bliss of solitude 364 days a year, but he’s not immune enough to sentiment not to feel bitter over the fact that on the one day of the year when everyone is supposed to have someone who wants to spend time with them, this year he has no one.

He had had a hard time deciding whether to buy John a present. This sort of social etiquette has always eluded him. Before he left for university, his mother had always told him who should be sent a gift and what was appropriate, and Sherlock had just gone along with it, signing a name on the gift tag or card.  Now, there is no one to help him since he's hardly going to increase Mycroft's smugness by asking him. In the end, he had decided against buying something for John. That had left his heart heavy in a way that had confounded him. Maybe he would have enjoyed the intellectual exercise of picking something John would both enjoy and need  – it is obvious he is a person who would appreciate practical gifts. If he were employed by Sherlock, he could have given John a bonus, but the designation ' _colleague'_ makes gift etiquette most challenging. A bottle of wine could have worked, but any Christmas foodstuffs would have spoiled or been cumbersome to lug around if there was a case that took them somewhere right before John was due for Bournemouth. The work must take precedence over frivolity.

 _Colleague_. That word has gained a bitter icing. It still mortifies him, the triumphant look on Wilkes’ face when John had corrected him on the definition of their acquaintance. It was not the first social gaffe Wilkes has witnessed him perpetrate, but he would have liked to prove that all that was in the past.

Is colleague somehow _more_ than a flatmate? John has used that term several times.

Sherlock forces himself to stop ruminating on semantics. He has a ticket to a train to Waterloo in three hours, whereas John’s train will leave in an hour.

Sherlock could may as well just stay here. Whether he stares at this cracked ceiling or sprawls on the sofa at Baker Street hardly matters.

There’s a knock on the door. He drags himself up, decides to skip putting his shoes back on. A draft from the corridoor makes his shiver in his shirtsleeves when he opens his door.

John, smiling with snowflakes in his hair. The sight is.... lovely.

Wordlessly, Sherlock steps aside and lets him in.

John presents him with a moss green envelope. He picks it up by the corner, scrutinizes the handwriting. It says ' _Sherlock'_ in the man's usual nearly indecipherable scrawl.

Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief – it’s just a Christmas card and not a gift. It means that he had deduced right; no exchange of actual presents is expected between colleagues. Since John had written a name on the envelope, he must be doling out identical ones out by the dozen.

The paper is of surprisingly good quality. Sherlock sniffs it, detecting a faint whiff of John’s usual aftershave and minute traces of cloves. Had John written this when he’d been eating the Indian leftovers three days ago? A greasy fingerprint adorns a corner which John must have carefully tried to wipe off judging by the slight smudge pattern – could be ghee used by the Indian restaurant, judging by the way it has absorbed into the cellulose.

Not that it matters. John had probably used all the not-smudged envelopes on other people.

"Merry Christmas, then," John says needlessly with uninfectious enthusiasm.

Sherlock puts the envelope on a side table. "Merry Christmas, John," he replies courteously.

"When’s Mycroft picking you up from home?" John asks conversationally.

Sherlock frowns at him. "What do you mean?" 

John’s brows raise up and a smile is tugging up his lip. This is an expression that appears when he thinks Sherlock is being oblivious about something that's plain as day to everybody else. It’s condescending.

"For Christmas...?" John reminds him.

God, couldn’t this stupid holiday be over already?! Sherlock crosses his arms and tries to look imposing so that John would hop on his train and stop putting him on the spot. "He’s not. Our parents are in the States and Mycroft is in Singapore for some summit or other. Don’t be surprised if a coup happens there in the next two weeks."

John's brows hitch up. "What? You’re not--- going anywhere?"

"Unless you count leaving Winchester for London, no."

"But even Mrs Hudson is out of town!" John argues, sounding as if Sherlock is committing a mortal sin by spending Christmas alone.

"I am aware."

John's cheery disposition in anticipation of the holidays seems to have fizzled out, and it must be Sherlock’s fault. _Unbearable_. John needs to leave, so that dignity can be preserved.

Sherlock glances at his watch – one of Mycroft’s better Christmas presents. "You should get going. Wouldn’t want to have to hurry with your 8.6 kilogram bag which strains your bad shoulder because the strap is broken and you have to support it with both upper extremities."

"Yeah, you’re... right," John says hesitantly, sounding like he always does when he knows Sherlock has won an argument but he still wants to press his own point. "You could come with me?" he says in a hasty, tentative manner.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I’d rather indulge in a thumbscrew." Sitting in some barely-affordable-for-an-unemployed-alcoholic council flat with just one bedroom and a sofa and the awkwardness of being a trespasser would make even _him_ want to pick up a bottle. Or, more accurately, a syringe.

The temptation will likely surface during the holidays. He will endeavour to resist, because John might notice if he fails.

"I’ll be off, then," John suggests. Is he expecting permission? ' _At ease, soldier_ '?

Sherlock nods. He knows there are normal, cheery things one could say at this point but he has never felt like a normal, cheery person and John must know him well enough already not to expect such nonsense as ' _have fun_ ' or ' _see you soon_ '.

John says 'bye, then', still looking hesitant, but eventually walks out the door.

This is good, because pity was beginning to tint the way he was looking at Sherlock. What is even worse, however, is that John looking at him like that, like he _cares_ , was making Sherlock want to scramble for an impromptu make-believe case so that John wouldn’t catch that train after all.

He throws himself back onto the bed, and tries to resist the temptation to start counting minutes until New Year.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
An hour later, his bladder chases him into the en suite. Once back in the room proper, he switches on the lamp on the bedside cabinet and grabs the green envelope. What does it matter when he opens it? Nobody will be present to enforce arbitrary rules about waiting until Christmas Day. 

It's going to be a boring card he can chuck into the bin, anyway. 

He crumples up the envelope and throws it towards the bin in the corner, missing it. Not bothering to rectify this, he scrutinises what had been inside.

Instead of something bourgeois, the card is a beautiful reprint of a medieval map of London. Sherlock flips it over and checks the printed text – it's from the gift shop at the Museum of London. They’d gone together on a Sunday when John had suggested they get out of the flat so that Sherlock would stop sulking. John often does things like that, tries to fix what Sherlock himself cannot, and usually he succeeds. Sherlock had never expected someone who would to appear in his life.

He opens the card.

' _To my friend Sherlock –_

_your present will start arriving in January: I have subscribed to The Forensic Examiner for twelve months since Molly says you always nick her copy._

_Merry Christmas,_

_John_ '

Staring at the words, Sherlock sits down on the only chair in the room.

This is not something John had picked out at the last minute – this was planned. 

He feels terrible, now. He has judged it wrong, all wrong. No wonder John had looked at him oddly; he had expected a gift in exchange of his own. Will he need to apologise for this? Will John be angry with him?

He brings the card closer to his face and squints at the words.

 _Friend_.

That’s what people often put on cards, isn't it? It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just polite. They share a residence out of fiscal convenience. They work together. That’s all. John had made that quite clear to Wilkes.

However, what _does_ mean something – although Sherlock does not yet know what – is that there’s a knock on the door again. A very determined one.

A glance at the time tells Sherlock it cannot be John, since his train should be far away by now. Could there be a final twist in the case he hasn’t anticipated? It would be a good thing. It would stop him feeling like the roof is about to cave in.

He hurries to the door, and his eyes go wide when he sees who is standing behind it.

 _John_.

How?

Why?

He has fresh snowflakes in his hair, so he’s been outside of course he’s been outside why is his bag in the corridor again was the train cancelled----

"Christ, the queues. Took me an hour to get the ticket changed."

Sherlock doesn’t understand _anything_. "What do you mean, ’changed’? Harry bought you that ticket," he accuses, even though he really doesn’t care what Harriet Watson spends her money on.

John shakes his head vigorously to get rid of the snow. A fleck lands on the lapel of Sherlock’s jacket. He doesn’t care.

"I’m coming back to London with you. We can do whatever we like for Christmas. I called Harry to tell her I’m not coming, and she was already pissed as a newt. Thank fuck I don’t have to be around to watch that."

Yes, Sherlock can offer less inebriated company than Harriet Watson, he still doesn't understand what John is doing back here. Why would John cancel his plans?

"Colleagues don’t usually spend holidays together," Sherlock remarks helpfully, in case John has overlooked this fact.

"Probably not, but flatmates do. Friends do."

Sherlock blinks. 

"I think it could be fun."

John is now looking at him with mild concern, and Sherlock takes care to curate his expression to something neutral and unaffected. This is a difficult thing to achieve right now, because John Watson has managed to complete throw him for a loop.

Yes, Sherlock most certainly thinks that spending Christmas in London with John would qualify as fun. In fact, the thought of having John all to himself for Christmas is so delightful that he can’t even believe it could happen.

"Why do you look like that?" John asks.

"Like what?"

"Like I’m speaking Swahili."

Sherlock swallows. "I appreciate the offer, but I wouldn’t want to be the reason you would change your plans."

"Look, you don’t abandon a mate for Christmas. That’s just not on."

Ah. Pity it is, then, that is driving the man. A _mate_? Sherlock has never been anyone’s mate. Surely that is a title that needs to be earned, and what he usually earns when he tries to deal with people in a social context is a kick up the arse or at least the verbal equivalent of it.

John laughs a bit. "Let me rephrase, then. I would like nothing more than to spend Christmas with my best friend."

Now Sherlock feels positively faint. Had John taken a wrong turn en route to the station and somehow ended up at the gin stalls of the Christmas market? Next he’ll be telling Sherlock he wants a kiss under a sprig of mistletoe.

"Are you alright?" John asks.

Sherlock blinks himself back into normal existence from that strange parallel universe he has just visited where he has s best friend for Christmas. "Yes, quite." He’s almost tempted to poke at John’s shoulder to make sure he’s not talking to the Mind Palace version, an imaginary fulfilment of his own wishes.

He takes a moment to look at John, really _look_ at him. All the evidence that he can gleam points to one simplistic deduction that since John is here, it must all be true.

"Good, because we’ve got work to do," John says. "You should dig out that laptop of yours; I’m not much of a cook, and the only ingredients you seem to be interested in come from the morgue, so we need to work out how to get all the food we want."

Sherlock practically dives into his bag for his computer. He realises he’ll need to do some gift-shopping after, all. Thank heavens there's still time.

He’ll also need to reconstruct the envelope to look like it hasn’t been opened.

For the first time, he’s motivated to put up even with the sensory assault of Christmas crowds, because he needs to get this man the present he deserves.

A present fit for a best friend.

 

**––– The End –––**

 


	2. Just a notification.

Want to know what Sherlock ended up getting for John? [Read 7PercentSolution's surprise sequel!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13023954)


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